


To Keep Dreaming

by MaryAnne615



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Quantum of Solace (2008), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2868839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryAnne615/pseuds/MaryAnne615
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't usually like stories where M is assaulted but I got a challenge from a friend who for some insane reason wanted to see M suffer.  I guess writing 'outside of our comfort zone' makes us better writers, right? So, here is my dark story that I didn't want to write but did anyway.</p><p>Just a year after Mitchell's failed attempt to kill her, one of Quantum's leftover members finds his way to her house and takes out his revenge on her.  She does her best to hide what happened from her husband and her favorite agent, but Bond figures it out.  </p><p>Bond takes matters into his own hands as he enacts revenge on the man who hurt the one woman who means anything to him.  </p><p>And we all know an Angry Bond is a Bond not to be reckoned with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Keep Dreaming

M was having the most wonderful dream. She was dreaming that her children were still young, her skin was still tight and her hair wasn’t mostly silver. She was dreaming that she wasn’t tired all the time, trying so hard to keep pace with the world and her job.

But even in her dream, in a deep midnight sleep, she could feel a shift in the world, feel that something was out of place. Before she open her eyes, she felt her husband move next to her as if he, too, had felt the same sense of something wrong.

Then she felt cold against her forehead, small and hard. Something round and hollow was being pressed against the bridge of her nose into the space between her eyes. 

She opened her eyes to stare at the muzzle of a gun. It was so close it made her cross-eyed trying to look at it. Keeping calm, she looked past the gun barrel, past the hand holding the grip, and into the steely eyes of the man holding the gun. It took her a second to remember the face from that cold wine cellar in Siena, Italy, a year ago. 

White. 

The same man who had managed to work with her own bodyguard in an attempt to assassinate her. The attempt had failed, a simple IV pole deflecting Mitchell’s bullet. And White had somehow managed to escape and stay hidden as the rest of Quantum had been brought crashing down.

Sometimes M wished that Bond had stayed with White instead of chasing after Mitchell after she had fled the cellar. They would have eventually found Mitchell. They just couldn’t seem to find White. 

And now here he was in her house. In her bedroom. In her bed.

“Hello, M. Been awhile. I do hope that you’re doing well,” he said smoothly. 

She tried to lift her head off the pillow but he pushed the muzzle harder into her skull. She put her head back on the pillow and kept still. Next to her she could feel her husband, now awake, sitting up. 

White moved the gun to point it at Emmett Whitstone.

“Don’t move.”

M’s heart froze in fear. As the husband of the SIS Chief, Emmett had had some training on reacting to attacks, mostly centered on keeping his head down and finding a hiding place. But he wasn’t a highly-trained operative. He could panic, screw up, and get them both killed. Silently she willed him to be still, to not move.

“Please,” M said softly. “He has nothing to do with this. Nothing. Let him go.” 

Without the muzzle holding her head down she was able to turn her head and see two other men in the room, both holding AK-47s and shuffling on their feet behind White. 

She didn’t like the fact that gunmen were in her house and she was unable to signal an alarm or call for help. But she wasn’t afraid for her own life. She’d known since the day she became ‘M’ that she would more than likely die in this type of scenario. All she wanted was for husband to be out of the house. 

“Please,” she repeated. 

White looked from Emmett to M. He seemed to be mulling various courses of action in dealing with his prey’s husband. 

“Okay. Get dressed,” White said, looking at Whitstone. “Howard will take you where you need to be.”

M came close to panic. She wanted her husband to be thrown out on the streets, told to wander and not come back for an hour. She didn’t want him alone with one of White’s thugs. There was no telling what he would do to her husband. Or if she would ever even find him.

“No…he can go…”

“He will do as I say or watch his wife die,” White said, putting the barrel of the gun back to her forehead and shoving her head back down to the pillow.

Next to her she saw her husband shift, trying to protect her. She put her hand on his.

“Do as he says, darling. They won’t hurt you.”

“She’s right. You’re unimportant. I just need you gone.”

Slowly her husband got out of bed, slid his feet into his slippers, and put his bathrobe on over his pajamas. He gave one long look at his wife, still in the bed, White’s gun leaving a red mark on her forehead. Then he turned and left, followed by Howard.

Moments passed, then M heard two car doors slam shut and then a car engine come to life. After the car drove away M and White sat in silence.

“What do you want, White?” she said, breaking the spell.

“I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out how to pay your back for your hospitality back in Italy. How kind you were to drag me, bleeding, from room to room, to ask me your stupid questions,” he said, sitting down on the bed next to her. M started to shift away from him but decided to keep still instead. Although she was frightened, she wouldn’t let him see that.

As he spoke her mind was working trying to figure out how to get to the silent alarm. There were several hidden buttons around the house, including on the bedroom wall. But it was on the opposite wall, on the other side of the room. She would have to get out of the bed, cross the floor, and hold the button. With White and his thug in the way she could never do that.

She noticed that White had moved closer to her and was reaching to stroke her cheek. Now she leaned back and turned her head away.

“Sorry, White, not interested.”

“Too bad. I’m taking it anyway”

White looked at his gun-for-hire. 

“I need something to tie her up. Find me two scarves or stockings or something. Search the drawers,” he said.

M was starting to shift in the bed, realizing what White intended. She needed to get away from him or hurt him.

But then she remembered that her husband was a hostage out there somewhere. While she couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t kill him, she instinctively knew that her cooperation would keep him alive.

She also knew it was best not to fight back during an assault, especially if it was inevitable. Fighting only meant more pain and suffering. She allowed White to pull her down on the bed and trap her body under his. 

Her long years of training as an operative were coming into play as she forced her mind to focus on her husband, her family, her job…anything other than what White was doing above her body. She barely felt the soft silk of her scarves being wrapped around her wrists or the sudden chill on her skin as White unbuttoned her pajama top and exposed her breasts and stomach. She was vaguely aware of the tugging on her pajama bottoms as he dragged them down to her ankles and over her feet, eventually tossing them onto the floor. 

She thought of her neighbor’s cat and how she often sat on the steps, waiting for a scratch behind the ears when she came home from work. She thought of her son’s shoes and how it was difficult to fit his overly large feet. She thought of the black interior of the latest Jaguar sedan that MI6 had provided her. She preferred the gray of her previous model and wondered how she could get that sedan back. 

She came back into focus when she realized he was now naked and crawling up her body, about to penetrate her. She could feel his hardness against her thighs as he got closer to her, randomly poking her as he moved around, trying to get settled on top of her.

“You’ll need some lube. It’s in the top drawer,” she whispered. Gratefully she saw him reach for the drawer. Long past menopause, without the lubricant he would never get inside of her. That might make him angry and hurt her. Or Emmett. 

She didn’t fight him at all, was completely docile, letting him do to her whatever he wanted. She barely moved as he pushed into her and started moving back and forth. He kissed her, hard, shoving his tongue down her throat in tandem with the thrusts between her legs. 

She thought of singing Christmas carols at mass on Christmas Eve. She thought of taking long walks in Hyde Park. She thought of her parents, long dead, and how they had raised her. She thought about the fact that she needed to go to the grocery store to buy more milk.

Her thoughts were random, unconnected, a tactic used by agents to minimize the effects of torture. It didn’t stop the pain, but helped operatives hold out a little longer with the hope of rescue while being beaten. Or electrocuted. Or assaulted. 

It didn’t take White long before he was grunting heavily in her ear, his body going rigid. She felt the bloom of warmth inside of her as he finished. His body went limp on top of hers and he was moaning softly, smug at his success. 

“What a nice fuck you are,” he said. “Your husband is a lucky man.”

As he spoke, she realized that the gun was still in his hand, now lying still on the mattress next to her head while he caught his breath. If she could only reach it she could kill him. M wriggled her wrists to see if she could get one free. The scarves weren’t wrapped too tightly; she might be able to…

She never saw the blow coming as White realized what she was thinking and smacked her across the nose. Thankfully not with the hand holding the gun and not too hard, but enough to make her eyes water and nose bleed.

He got up off of her body and her bed but didn’t bother to cover her up, leaving her exposed and cold.

“My turn?” 

The voice was in the doorway, the gun-for-hire who had no doubt stood guard for White. 

‘Christ’, thought M, ‘they’re going to take turns with me’, causing panic to start rising in her chest. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to handle more than one assault on her body.

“No, we have to go. We’ve been here too long. I did what I wanted to do,” White’s voice said. She had not turned her head to look at either of them, focusing instead on a spot on the ceiling.

“Call Howard. Tell him to let Whitstone go,” she heard White say. The words made her heart leap with joy at the thought that her husband was safe. She didn’t know where he was, but no one was going to hurt him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Emmett Whitstone shifted once again in the passenger seat of the car. It was a small car, and cold. With the engine off there was no heat. 

For 30 minutes Emmett and his captor had been sitting in the car, about 4 blocks from the headquarters of MI6, just out of camera range so there would be no identification of the driver or the car. The thug was holding his pistol in one hand, his phone in the other, awaiting instructions from White. Neither of them was sure what the next move was.

Emmett jumped when he heard the man’s mobile ring, breaking the heavy silence.

He could hear a voice on the phone but couldn’t make out the words. Emmett’s heart started pounding as he wondered if he only had a few more minutes to live. He also debated in his mind if he should just jump out of the car and start running toward MI6. Howard would probably shoot him then drive away. But he could probably survive a gunshot and it wouldn’t take long for MI6 personnel to get to him. 

Before he could decide, Howard’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Okay, copy that,” the man replied into the phone. Emmett waited patiently to hear what the man’s instructions were. If only he could speak to his wife. Not knowing where she was or what was happening to her was killing him.

Howard pointed his gun at Emmett’s head.

“Get out.”

Simple, easy instructions. Emmett complied, wondering if he would get shot in the back as Howard started the car and quickly drove away. When the small car rounded the corner he bolted toward MI6.

Within minutes he was staggering up the steps of the sprawling MI6 headquarters. In all of Olivia’s years with the service, Emmett had only come to this building a handful of times. Unlike most companies, there were no holiday parties, no family get-togethers, no team-building exercises that were so popular. There was simply no reason for anyone other than the employees to come to this building.

And frankly, the building scared him. With the tan stone, dark windows and satellite dishes and antennae all around the perimeter, Emmett had always felt the building was alive, watching him, reading his thoughts. And that one day it would swallow his wife and she would never reappear.

He knew he was being watched on multiple CCTV cameras and that it wouldn’t take long for him to be surrounded. At least six operatives were at him before he got to the front door, pointing weapons at him and telling him to ‘halt’.

He put his hands over his head and sank to his knees. One of the operatives came and gave him a quick body search, looking for a weapon. Emmett was grateful he didn’t have on a heavy coat. Despite the cold, it made the body search much easier.

“What do you want?” 

“My name is Dr. Emmett Whitstone. My wife is M. She is being held hostage at our home,” he said quickly, not wasting anyone’s time. He knew it wouldn’t take long for someone to verify his identity.

“Look here,” said a voice to his right. He was holding up an object that looked like an old-fashioned Polaroid camera that was used to register human biometrics. Years ago Emmett had had his fingerprints, blood type, retinal scan and various other biometrics put into the system. At the time he had grumbled about the time taken to do this. Now he was grateful.

“Okay, got a positive reading on the retinal scan. He is who he says he is. Call Villiers,” said the man, grabbing Emmett by his arm and helping him up.

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No, I just want you to get to my wife…”

“Don’t worry, there are operatives on their way,” he said, then looked away. Emmett realized he had on an earwig.

“Okay, thanks.”

The man looked at Emmett.

“The silent alarm at your house just went off.”

Emmett saw Villiers coming out of the building, pulling on his coat, and pointing behind Emmett. 

He followed the man’s gaze to a car that was pulling around the building and parking at the curb.

“Get in. Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bond got to M’s house first. He was only a few blocks away, just finishing up a late dinner, when the silent alarm at M’s house came over the system. He called in that he was on his way before making a sharp left turn to head toward Knightsbridge.

Tanner called him within minutes and sent him a photograph of M’s husband so that Bond would be able to identify him and not mistake him for an intruder. 

Bond arrived at the house in under ten minutes and mounted the steps three at the time, weapon drawn.

The front door was slightly ajar. Bond shoved it open and pointed his pistol into the foyer, ready to pull the trigger if he saw anything out of the ordinary. 

He saw M sitting halfway down the stairs. She was casually dressed in slacks and a man’s shirt. Her hands were fidgeting in her lap. A small drop of blood was on her nostril. Bond could see a perfectly round red mark on her forehead.

She saw him but didn’t move. She knew better. Bond was on high alert, her house had been compromised and his trigger finger was twitchy. She didn’t want this to be a ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ situation.

“M...?”

“It was White. And two other men but one took my husband. I don’t know where he is,” she said, on the verge of tears.

“They dumped him on the front steps of MI6. He’s on his way here with Villiers,” he said.

As he looked at her and spoke, M was grateful she had had a few minutes after White left to clean up.

She didn’t want her husband, or Bond, or anyone else to know what White had done to her. 

She had easily freed herself from the scarves and put them back in the drawer. In the bathroom she had run a wet cloth over her body to get his scent off of her. To keep her husband from suspecting what had happened, she did what she could do to clean up without leaving any indicators. She didn’t use soap or perfume and, even though she could feel his stickiness between her legs, she didn’t shower. That would just have to wait.

All she thought to do was put some scented lotion on her hands. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary…she loved scented lotion and used it on a regular basis. 

And change her clothes. Putting on regular clothing wouldn’t raise suspicion. No doubt MI6 would make her relocate and running around in her pajamas wouldn’t be acceptable. She quickly stripped, put her soiled pajamas in the laundry, and put on some casual street clothes.

When she stepped back into the bedroom she realized the smell of sex was heavy in the room. She almost gagged at the smell and the memory of his tongue in her mouth and his body on top of hers.

She opened a window briefly to let in some fresh air. It was the best she could do. 

She then hit her silent alarm and went to the staircase to wait. For an agent. For her staff. For someone to tell her where her husband was.

And now Bond was standing in front of her, telling her exactly what she wanted to hear.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief at his words.

“I’m going to do a sweep of the house, M. Get behind me,” Bond instructed. He had a suspicion White was long gone but he wanted to ensure there were no booby traps. And he couldn’t leave her alone. Until back up arrived she would have to stay with him.

She obeyed him without question. Bond had to give that to her…despite her being cold, demanding and a bitch, she knew protocol and tactics and wouldn’t fight him on his demands. 

Bond cleared the first floor and was halfway up the stairs with M in tow when there was a knock on the door, followed by shouting.

“Olivia! It’s me! Open the door!”

M was down the stairs in a flash but Bond was faster. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her away from the door. He pulled her back so hard her feet came off the ground.

“No, let me open it, M. Could be a trap.”

M sniffed loudly but acquiesced. She moved out of the hallway to stand behind Bond.

Bond opened the door and raised his pistol. He saw Villiers and Jonas, M’s bodyguard, in the doorframe. A tall, gray-haired man breezed by him, ignoring the gun.

“Olivia?!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her rush into his arms. They held each other for several minutes, not speaking and with the MI6 personnel watching.

Emmett pulled back from her and gave her a quick once over. Bond remembered that the man was a doctor. If she was injured, he could help her until they could get to Medical at MI6.

Emmett wiped at the blood on her nose although it was long dry and didn’t come off. He took a handkerchief out of his robe pocket, dabbed it on his tongue, and then wiped again. This time the blood came off.

“You okay?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. And I know how fast the operatives at MI6 can react to a man in his pajamas running up their front steps.”

“I trained them well,” responded M, laughing softly. She laid his head on his chest and breathed in his scent.

He was safe. No matter what else happened tonight, all that was important was that her husband was safe.

Bond motioned to Jonas that he was going upstairs to clear the house and that he and Villiers were to stay with M.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took twenty minutes for Bond and Ronson, who showed up minutes later, to clear the house before they went back downstairs to the living room. It was getting crowded in the room and the argument about where M and her husband should go was getting loud.

The options were slim: Go to a safe house or M’s small suite at MI6. As the chief, she had access to her own private room with a double bed, an en suite, and a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries handy for those nights she just couldn’t get away from the office. 

Bond, Villiers, and Tanner via mobile wanted them to go to a safe house. M argued for MI6. It was already secure and they would have much more privacy. 

They finally settled on MI6, meaning Emmett would have to pack a bag.

Grudgingly, the man went upstairs to gather some things together. 

M headed to the kitchen to make some tea. Bond followed her.

M put the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. She was acutely aware of Bond standing in the doorway. He looked subdued, concerned.

“What did White do to you?” Bond asked quietly.

She looked at him.

“I told you. He just wanted to frighten me. He waved his gun around. He hit me. He sent my husband away with one of his men.”

“No, he did more.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can see it in your eyes, M.”

Bond had learned years ago that he would never be able to read M’s face and know what she was really thinking or feeling. She had mastered the art of the stone cold, unreadable expression that would never give anyone else in the room the upper hand. But eventually he realized that it was her eyes that held her emotions. And that he could tell what she was really thinking or feeling just by looking into those depths of blue. 

Right now, he could see a heavy darkness that he had never seen before, almost a shadow. It would be an imperceptible change to anyone who didn’t really know her. Her husband might not even notice if he chose not to look.

Bond had looked. Because he knew White. Or rather, he knew men like White. Knew what they were capable of. He also knew that White wouldn’t let an opportunity alone with the woman who had treated him so badly and broken up his extensive ring of terrorists go by without hurting her. And there are only a few ways a man can truly hurt a woman and not leave a visible mark. 

“What did he do to you?” he said again, hoping to push the right buttons to get her to talk to him, tell him what he wanted to know so he could take more pleasure in hunting down White and killing him.

His tactic worked. Now she was angry. She threw the towel she had been holding onto the countertop and turned to face him, her face red with anger.

“What the hell do you think he did to me, Bond? For bloody fuck’s safe, he tied me to my own bed, took off my clothes, and…”

She looked away, picked up the towel.

“Well, I think you can figure out what he did next.”

For several moments neither of them spoke. Bond could hear her breathing. He could hear her thinking. Her voice was in his head, telling him to go and get White.

“Then I shall hunt him to the ends of the earth and make him pay for hurting you,” Bond said, coldly.

“You’ll do no such of a thing,” M snapped. “You’ll do your fucking job and take him out because he’s a terrorist and has betrayed Queen and country. Nothing more.”

She breathed sharply and turned back to the stove. The kettle was close to boiling. She stared hard at it but continued to speak.

“Bond, women are assaulted on a daily basis in our job. Tortured, murdered. You of all people should remember that. I’m lucky he didn’t cut my throat. Or my husband’s throat. We need to focus on the big picture, White’s history of terrorism and treason. Not one incident with one woman. What happened to me is irrelevant.”

“Not to me. And those other women aren’t you. There’s a difference.”

M acted as if she didn’t hear him, instead focusing on opening tea bags and putting them in the mugs. Both of them knew her actions were futile, merely giving her something to focus on. No one would be drinking tea tonight.

“You should see a doctor.”

“Not necessary. He didn’t hurt me,” she said softly, wondering how soon it would be before her husband came back downstairs. She didn’t want him hearing this conversation. 

She picked up the tea kettle. 

“Still, you should see a doctor,” Bond reiterated.

“I didn’t fight him, Bond. Hell, he didn’t even have to tie me up. Short of treason, I would have given him anything he wanted to ensure the safety of my husband. And he is safe. That’s all that’s important,” she said. 

At this point her hands were shaking, sloshing the water in the kettle. She couldn’t pour the water into the mugs without spilling. She just wanted this night to be over. She wanted to shower. She wanted to feel clean again. 

Bond saw her in distress but knew better than to touch her. The last thing she needed was another man forcing himself on her. He took a step toward her and froze, wanting her to know that he was there, that he cared about her, that he would protect her. 

“Put the kettle down, M, before you burn yourself.”

To Bond’s relief, she complied, placing the kettle back on the burner. 

Suddenly Bond was aware of somebody standing behind him. 

“I’m ready. Let’s go, Olivia,” Emmett said, his voice tired, his body slumping.

M looked at Bond, then her husband. She made sure the stove was off then brushed by Bond, took her husband’s hand and went out the front door.

Bond watched them leave the house, already plotting his revenge against White.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bond circled White like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. The man was tied to a chair in the middle of a dingy, humid room. Bond’s stomach turned at the thought of what this man had done to M, those thoughts fueling his anger and his desire to kill. But Bond would take his time. Between working with Mitchell to shoot her and then assaulting her, the man needed to suffer before getting a bullet in his head.

And this man would pay, no matter what M said, no matter his involvement with Quantum, no matter his treason against the United Kingdom. 

MI6 had paired with the CIA and it took the Americans five days to trace White to Mexico City and another day to find his hideout. Felix Leiter had personally been the agent to find White and capture him. Then he had simply tied the man up in an abandoned warehouse and watched him until Bond arrived.

Then Felix had left. He knew what had happened to M and what Bond was capable of doing in retaliation. 

Bond opened a large paper bag and pulled out an object wrapped in heavy canvas and tied with string. It was the best he could find, from one of London’s top chef-centric stores. He had searched for a whole day to find exactly what he wanted, picking several up and bringing them down on chopping blocks, testing their heft and strength. 

In front of White he slowly unwrapped the object. The clerk at the store had taken too much time wrapping it after Bond insisted it not be put in a box. 

White’s eyes grew wide when he realized the object was a meat cleaver. Shiny and steel, and no doubt as sharp as any knife could be. 

When Bond had had him in the trunk of his car or cornered in the wine cellar, White had not been scared. When the CIA had captured him and tied him to a chair he had not been scared. 

Now seeing Bond holding the knife, he was scared. 

Bond untied him from the chair, leaving his hands free. For a moment White was tempted to run but knew that if he did, his death would only come quicker. He knew there were at least three more MI6 agents nearby, ready to kill him if Bond didn’t. 

“Take off your trousers.”

Bond’s voice was clipped, not leaving any room for disagreement. White complied, puddling his trousers at his feet then stepping out of them.

“Now your shorts.”

White hesitated as his brain slowly registered what was about to happen to him. His hands visibly shaking, he removed his shorts.

Bond stepped up to him and put his face into White’s but didn’t speak. Then Bond took White’s penis in his hand and pulled him over to the table in the center of the room. 

“Takes a big man to assault an old woman who can’t defend herself,” Bond said, gently stretching the penis out on the table.

“I didn’t…” White started to speak but was cut off by an icy glare from Bond.

“She couldn’t defend herself.”

With that Bond brought the cleaver down on the head of White’s penis, separating it from the rest of the shaft.

The man cried out in pain and fell to his knees, blood covering the table’s surface and then the floor as he lay on it, writhing in agony. 

Bond watched him for almost five minutes, eventually growing bored listening to White’s moans of pain and watching him bleed. He hooked his arms under White’s shoulders and forced him to stand back up at the table. White wobbled, nearly in shock.

“It takes a big man to starve an entire country of its water supply for money and power,” Bond said, remembering how he felt when he realized that the dam holding back all that water was manmade and Quantum’s plot becoming clear in his head.

“I didn’t...”

“It was an entire country.”

For the second time Bond laid the man’s penis out on the table and brought the cleaver down, taking off another inch.

This time White’s screams were guttural, straight out of a B-grade horror movie. Bond felt nothing as he once again watched him fall to the ground, rolling over onto his side and clutching what was left of his dick.

Once again Bond waited. This time he waited for ten minutes to pass before he stood over White, who by now was pale and lying in a large pool of his own blood. 

Bond pulled out his pistol. Not his usual Walter PPK but instead a revolver with a perfectly round, 6-inch barrel.

White’s eyes grew round with panic as he saw Bond pull out the revolver.

“Let’s see, I believe this is where you placed it on her forehead,” Bond said, putting the muzzle on the bridge of White’s nose, right between his eyes. Bond remembered clearly the mark on M’s forehead.

“Is that right, White? Is this where it was?”

“I don’t...”

Bond pulled the trigger. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

M threw another log onto the fire and stood in front of it, enjoying the warmth of the flames on her face and body. Since that night she hadn’t been able to keep the chill out of her fingers and her heart and took every opportunity to bask in any warmth she could find.

Her husband was sitting behind her in the big chair that sat in front of the fireplace. It was just big enough for two adults to snuggle comfortably in, something they did on a regular basis. 

She crawled into the small space on his right side and snuggled up against his body.

He pulled her closer, putting his hand on her forehead and smoothing back her hair.

“You should have told me.”

“I couldn’t, Emmett. I’m sorry.”

Three days after White’s attack Bond had visited her in her office, lurking in the doorway, unsure of whether or not he should approach her. She had been on the phone with the PM and had seen him out of the corner of her eyes and waved him into her office.

Their conversation had been brief. Bond suggested she take some time off and go to her family’s beach house. He also suggested that she tell her husband what had happened to her. 

‘You’re marriage counseling tips have always been appreciated, Bond,’ she had replied sarcastically. 

Truth be told Bond had felt stupid offering a woman who had been married 46 years advice when he himself had never even truly loved a woman and probably never would.

But in the end he finally convinced her that her husband probably already suspected and was merely waiting for her to tell him.

So, she had followed Bond’s advice. They had arrived at the beach house that afternoon and, after a long leisurely dinner and a bottle of wine, she had told him about that night. He had listened dispassionately, allowing the words to sink in, confirming what he had already known. 

“I understand you weren’t ready. I’m just…sad…I couldn’t do anything to help you.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“You should have seen your doctor. Even if you weren’t hurt, you needed to collect evidence for the trial.”

“There won’t be a trial.”

“But surely your agents will find him.”

She hesitated.

“They already have.”

She had received the short text from Bond just as they pulled into the driveway of the beach house.

‘Deed is done. He won’t hurt you, England, or anyone else again.’

Emmett looked at her hard as her words sunk into his head.

“No trial?”

“No trial.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the fire. 

“I see you hesitate sometimes as you come into the bedroom,” Emmett finally said. “Too many bad memories, I guess. We can move,” he offered, knowing there wasn’t much else he could do to comfort her. 

“No, I love that house. Despite all this, I feel safe there. It’s our home,” she said softly. It was true. She loved that home and knew he did, too. It was his childhood home that his father had given to Emmett’s older brother when he died. The house had come to Emmett when that brother had died. They had moved in shortly thereafter, after allowing for MI6 to make all the necessary security upgrades. Now MI6 would have to make more.

“Well, then, we’re due for some updates. We can renovate, make everything upstairs different, including the bathroom,” he said.

She kissed the side of his head, just above his ear, enjoying the feel of his warm skin and hair on her nose. He turned his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. She returned his kiss. She missed him, had missed the closeness she had always felt with him. 

Their kiss deepened and their bodies shifted against each other. There wasn’t much room in the chair. M was ready for him, wanted him to take her down the hallway to their bedroom.

But when he brushed his hand lightly over her breast and cupped it her blood ran cold and she pulled away from him. Instantly she moved back to him but it was too late. He had felt her body tense at his touch.

“We need to talk to someone, Olivia.”

“No, I…”

“I know a trusted friend, a counselor. She’ll talk to us, privately, no names, no records kept, no questions asked.”

M melted into her husband’s arms, knowing that all would be well. Slowly her mind cleared and she relaxed, falling into a light slumber. 

Before long she was asleep and dreaming of a time when her children were still young, her skin was still tight and her hair wasn’t mostly silver. Dreaming of a time when she wasn’t tired all the time, trying so hard to keep pace with the world and her job.

 

~Finis~


End file.
